


The Seed and The Sower

by Anonymous



Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel)
Genre: Animals, Canon Compliant, Folklore, Haiku, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, Magic, Mild Gore, Moving Tattoo(s), Mythical Beings & Creatures, Other, Poetic, Suggestive Themes, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 11:29:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4099372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Be it the sparrow, the man or the elements, every seed has it's sower.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Seed and The Sower

  
  
  
"Raven Black Tresses  
Caress a Painted Canvas  
Of Defiant Flesh"  
  
  
An only slighter smaller hand lay curled in his gloved palm.

A certain sense of elation was often evoked in the whimpers, the digging of short nails, the tremble of a smaller body and the sweat and serosanguineous fluid that poured from his back. A masterpiece. A masterpiece in body, and in mind.  
His tour de force.

There certainly was a strange beauty to this creation. Even unfinished, writhing beneath steadily working hands, there was a beauty to the blood, to the tears. A beauty to the sheer tenacity of an urchin enduring something no youth should endure. Nearly an adult, yet still just a child.

"Your skin is beautiful," the fox-man had said, narrow sea-blue eyes slitting in gratification as the black rubber on his left hand braced against exposed flesh, holding malleable skin taut as his right hand expertly braced the tool within the dip of his purlicue. _Shakki shakki_. With each puncture, the man pulls the tool away once more, embedded needles tugging at flesh with a soft snap as the two separate.

"My canvas." The vulpine man would say, time and time again. With his close-set, angled eyes, high cheekbones, and ever smiling thin pink lips. He was a beautiful creature. Admirable. Talented. Everything anyone could ever ask for. His voice was smooth and sweet- soft and slow like honey yet airy and light like milk. This man- he was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

He'd started complimenting the boy the moment the sujibori began. It continued, through the hikae, the shichibu. Repetition, blood like tiny pearls forming at the sites of each individual prick, wiped away and rubbed down time and time again. _Shakki shakki_. The boy would draw blood with his own teeth, biting into his own hands to relieve the tension in his jaw, to prevent his molars from grinding.

A bare hand, taken in one gloved, would be drawn to the lips of the ever smiling fox man, and a tender caress would be placed. Turning the hand palm-up, he'd repeat his actions, opposite hand raising to engulf the smaller, folding it closed. "You are special." He'd say, once again drawing the hand near, pecking Boy's knuckles softly.

The intricate patterns- the kebori of each feather, the vibrancy of each peony. It was beautiful. Beautiful just like it's artist. Like it's creator. "You are my canvas," the man would remind the boy, hands running along an exposed body, fingertips tracing each detail, each rise and fall, each point. The spray of flora and fauna on the boy's back, the curvature of the design.  
"This is my design," the fox man once said, leaning dangerously close so that the side of that flawless face pressed gently to tacky unwilling flesh. "This is my masterpiece." Like feathers, or the feet of a dainty spider, his fingers would trace, trace, trace. Trace above, beyond and below. The boy tolerated it. The boy endured it.

A fine line of needles, sterile and sharp, were not the only thing that defiled his body. Words. Feelings and emotions. The boy's skin would crawl, his abdomen would tense, everything would leave him at once, through his mouth or his legs, whichever came first. The fox man would pin him, would force the child to lay in his sweat, in his blood, his saliva and tears.

By the time each session was done, the room would be permeated by the odor of iron, of musk, of blooming Callery pear. The boy's stomach would turn and his mind would blank, he'd revisit each passing second spent with the vulpine man, those cat like eyes seething with sensual ardor, scanning once unsullied body, a hallowed gaze uninvited, unwelcome, unwanted.

A stain. A stain on the child's body, a stain on the child's sheets, a stain on the child's soul. Something so deeply ingrained into his very being that no miracle could exorcise it. He had been touched by a demon. By a creature, slim and fair, of light and stealthy foot. A creature, talented and powerful, soaking up every tear that was shed, every cry that was let.

A decade and one year passed, the child grew, mature, aged. With him he carried a burden so foul, so cruel, it brought tears to his eyes and made him trust very few. Not only the memories of violation, of a fox man clad in indigo, turquoise and maroon, but of the blood of his loved ones, of his mother, cold and still, laying in the aftermath of an uncontrollable fury following the finishing touches of a beautiful tattoo.

They encountered again, and again after that, within a short period of time, and in the final moments of their final encounter, the fox man's face was painted in nothing more than affection. Love. Not for the boy, now a man, but for what he had created. For this man, beautiful and strong, admirable and talented, had once again been reduced to the very thing he hated most, the very thing the fox man himself was.

"Take away my spirit," said the older to the other, slim and languid arms open wide, beckoning the beast painted in the floral, writhing love and affection the fox man had embedded so long ago. The time had finally come. Of truth, of the impending end. Teeth bared, inhuman roaring seeped from a bright mouth, robust body tense and vascular. The beast charged.

Pouring forth from a toothy grin, equally fanged and bright, came a sea of scarlet. Through it's abdomen, a broad blade sunk. Pierce the fur, pierce the hide, tear the tissue, rupture it's organs, destroy.

Destroy it, conquer it, devour it.

Maw agape and frothing, dainty paws braced against a once pristine floor now caked in the blood of it's own husk.

It laughs, it's tails erect, it's hair bristled. The facade is over, it's true form exposed to the only other soul with The Sight. It utters words the beast cannot understand, vertically slit pupils of deep blue eyes focused on one thing and one thing alone- the fruit of it's labor. A drupe on a skewer, the blade pierces through the very essence of the fox man, his kimono, his skin, his fur, his flesh.

Shattering into a million pieces and creating a galaxy of raw energy, the hoshi no tama pours from the wound and the body of a small animal lays limp in it's own sanguinary release.  
Ascension. Divinity. Infinity.

Paint the floors, paint the walls, the ceiling and the sky.  
Know no limits, fox, for you are free, and you have won.

Like a mother, birthed to man, nurtured by a yokai.  
Another tale to be written in the konjaku,  
The Story of the Fox Man Ryuuhou and the twice-time mother killer Koujaku.


End file.
